


auld acquaintance

by lovehugsandcandy



Category: Ride or Die (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovehugsandcandy/pseuds/lovehugsandcandy
Summary: College AU with a New Year’s theme (??? idk.): New Year’s is a time for fresh starts, hopes dashed, and hopes rekindled.
Relationships: Colt Kaneko/Main Character (Ride or Die)
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freshman year.

Colt hates this shit.

He drains his beer and drops it on a side table, grimacing, eyes scanning the room for a workable escape plan. 

No, he fucking _despises_ this shit.

He understands, on an intellectual level, that he should be grateful for Ingrid’s invite. Yes, he is tangentially part of this amorphous group of friends, but it’s not like they’re tight. That she invited him, invited all of them, paid for their fucking hotel rooms and their sparkling champagne and the tiny hor d’oeuvres that circle the room on trays carried by somber staff in white gloves, well… He would say it’s kindness, but he knows Ingrid too well for that. It’s a show of wealth, a smug statement, an opulent brag, and it’s just one more reason atop multitudes that he wants to blow this shit off and ring in the New Year by downing beers by himself in his own darkened room.

Fuck, he hates parties, the crowds and booze and combination thereof leading to even stupider shit than he normally sees from the fucking dumbasses around him every day.

Hell, he hates people, basically everyone, and the very few exceptions are either not here at this stupid party or have vanished into thin air amongst the thick tapestries.

He hates this rich person shit and, while Ingrid’s occasionally decent, the lavish crowd at her party sucks, snooty eyes and prissy grins belying the fact that they know he doesn’t belong. Fuck, he doesn’t want to belong, not here, not among these gilded walls and sloshing glasses of expensive booze. He knows far too well that Langston’s students are rich, is well aware that Ingrid’s parents could buy out the entire apartment building where he and his mom share a shit two-bed, but seeing it here, at their fucking annual New Year’s Eve extravaganza, well, it makes him want to smash champagne bottles over coiffed heads and dig a key deep into every single one of the Lambos downstairs.

Fuck, he hates these people.

He wants to leave, just flee into the anonymity of the city, but stops short as he spies a familiar dark head of curls tracing an unsteady path towards the back door. His eyes narrow. She’s headed towards an opulent exit gilded in shiny gold filigree; it leads to a balcony where he himself spent an hour avoiding the mass of designer purses and fur stoles, but he doesn’t know why she’s staggering over there, alone no less, none of her constant companions corralled around her.

He hesitates, only for a moment, then follows, pushing through the crowd of expensive perfume, eyes trained on where her lithe form, clad in a borrowed skintight gown, has just disappeared through the ornate door of this fucking hotel. It’s curiosity, that’s all; Langston’s golden child is stumbling alone out of the party of the year, and he burns to find out. Colt likes knowing things, hoards knowledge and secrets and weaknesses like gold, and the chance to see what Ellie’s up to is impossible to pass up.

She has her back to him as he steps into the dark, turning as his footsteps echo closer, and he’s momentarily taken aback by how dismayed she looks. Her arms are wrapped around her torso, fighting off the winter chill, and her eyes glisten, reflecting the ballroom lights behind him. A couple of streaks of moisture have made their way down to where her lips turn down. He stops short. _What the fuck does she have to be sad about?_

“Um…” He stares, watching her rub her bare forearms. “The fuck’s wrong with you?”

Her shoulders drop and she rolls her eyes, turning back to the expanse of New York in front of them. “Of course it’s you. What do _you_ want?” He cringes, immediately regretting his decision to follow her. There are far better people to be dealing with a crying Ellie Wheeler as the clock ticks down to festive cheer; anyone would probably be better in this situation than he.

“I was just curious. I can g-”

“It’s fine.” Her back is tense, unnatural bite in her voice, and he sighs, stepping closer to join her at the railing.

“Alright, sweetheart. What the fuck’s wrong?”

“Like you care.”

Does he care? Kinda? Partly, it’s pure curiosity. Partly because, well, he would be lying if he claimed to be completely immune to her dimpled grin and multitudinous charms. Though he’s not obviously besotted like the rest of their fucking class, he’s… intrigued. She’s brilliant, keen wit rivaling his own and enough spunk to challenge even him during banal classroom debates. His hands curl around the railing. “Well, I can fucking stand here all night so you might as well talk.”

“It’s stupid.” She swipes at her cheeks and he waits, eyes following the pedestrians below, revelers cheering and screaming into the night. “I just… every New Year, I feel like it’s supposed to be a fresh start. Something new, better. But every year, nothing changes; it’s just all the same.”

His eyes cut to her; she’s looking down at her hands, shivering when the breeze flies through the skyscrapers. “It only a stupid holiday.”

“It’s symbolic,” she shoots back.

“Symbolic of idiots getting wasted.”

She sighs. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t. What on earth do you want to change? You have everything.”

“Ha. Nobody has everything.”

“You do. Best grades, friends with everyone, editor of the newspaper, president of the class. The fuck else could you want?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

There’s something about her voice, slurring the last vowel, tongue tripping over the familiar pronunciation as if it were a foreign tongue. “Oh, my God. Ellie Wheeler, are you _drunk_?”

“Shut up.”

He straightens, staring incredulously. “You are drunk.” He doesn’t know if it is more disbelief or awe coloring his words.

“They didn’t even card me! Isn’t that illegal?”

“Rules are fucking different for rich people.”

“I only had a couple of glasses of champagne,” she explains, as if he gives a shit about her alcohol consumption.

“Christ, who _caaaares_ ,” he huffs, then continues when she glares, “What? I literally couldn’t care less about your underage drinking.”

“Fine, fine.” She slumps against the railing and he eyes the door. “You don’t care about anything.”

“Well, maybe you care too much.”

She looks down at the street below; her eyes are still wet, but at least she’s stopped crying. In the moon’s glow, they sparkle like crystals, pure and precious. Colt wishes he had the strength to look away. “Maybe.”

“Come on, what’s wrong with you? You’re no fun when you’re all morose.”

“I want…”

“Yeah?” He waves his hand in an impatient circle. “What?”

“I just want things to be different.”

“Then make them different. Fuck things up. Literally, who cares?”

“I do!”

“Ellie.” He turns so he can grip her shoulders, ice cold and goose bumped under his palms. “You literally could do anything you fucking wanted and instead you’re weeping out here. Go back inside-” fuck, _he_ wants to go back inside, this is _ridiculous_ “-have some more fucking champagne, and fix whatever the hell is the matter with you.”

She stares at him for so long it gets awkward, his hands cupping her shoulders, the thin strap of her dress edging distractingly onto his finger, before she finally speaks. “Maybe nothing will change unless I make it change.” The words are weighty, reverent, and she mutters them so low that he struggles to hear over the rising sounds from the ballroom.

He can hear the countdown from inside, drunken voices calling an end to this shitty year and the beginning of the next shitty year, and he glances through the window, rolling his eyes at the revelers inside.

When he turns back, Ellie is peering at him strangely. It’s unsettling, how he can’t read the look in her eyes, and he wonders vaguely if she’s going to kiss him.

It’s not like he’s _never_ thought about it. He’s not blind after all, and she’s attractive, desperately so, especially when she’s looking up at him with wide glistening eyes, pouty lips stained pink from some fruity concoction Riya had been forcing on everyone, her skin slowly warming under his fingertips.

The countdown continues, and he holds her gaze, awkwardness slowly edging into some weird warmth, and she coughs when they finally reach zero, the screaming masses inside cheering in yet another year. He drops his hands.

“I should…” She bites her lip. “I should go find my friends.”

“Yeah, sure.”

She turns, close enough that the thin silk of her dress brushes his hip, and slides away. Below him, a car horn blares into the night. “Hey, Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

When he looks back, she’s illuminated by the door, glowing angelic and sweet; she’s so impossibly beautiful that his mouth suddenly dries out and he forgets what he had been about to say. “Happy New Year,” he finally offers.

“Thanks.” Her smile starts slow, edging out until her cheeks are tight, and she’s positively beaming. “You too.”

The noise grows as she slides into the ballroom and then, when the door shuts, it’s muffled, low and discordant, leaving him alone as he turns back to the street below. He turns away to brace his forearms on the railing; it’s still dark in the alley below and it’s suddenly colder, freezing even through his suit jacket, as he vaguely wonders, _What the fuck was that?_

~~~~~

He doesn’t think about it again.

He _doesn’t_.

At least not often.

But he can’t help but wonder what she hates about her life so much. She has _everything_. She’s top of their class, highest marks and honor roll and all that shit, in a million clubs, with a million things to do. Their friends all love her, Logan’s practically obsessed, and even Mona has a soft spot for her… and Mona hates _everyone_.

And, worst of all, her father thinks she walks on water, adoringly visiting at Parents’ Weekend and calling her every Sunday, without fail, to where Colt has to leave the room so his stomach stops roiling.

But her words echo in his head.

_Maybe nothing will change unless I make it change._

For Spring Break, he flies out to California. With only his leather jacket, a half-formed plan, and years of bitter anger boiling over into a rage that soars through his bloodstream with the force of a roaring blaze, he makes his way to a garage and a confrontation that has been building over his entire life.

It doesn’t go well.

He flies back east with a black eye and raw knuckles, bag of ice gifted by a sympathetic flight attendant covering mortifying tears that threaten to spill over. When he blinks blearily awake at landing, the ice has melted and pooled at his feet while sunshine pours into the cabin.

Colt cares about very few people in his life, has always been a lone wolf moving against the current. He would kill for the people he cares for and, with his father’s fists heavy in his mind, he realizes that the number is steadily decreasing and wonders if he’s truly alone in the world, locked in a solo battle with every single person on earth.

However, when he heads to the campus center for a coffee, Ellie is there, clutching her own steaming mug, head thrown back in a laugh as she huddles at a small table, next to a grinning Ximena. For a moment, he watches the sunlight reflecting off her hair, and the freedom imbued in every shake of her head, in every tilt of her lips.

Maybe Colt can care about people after all.

And for the rest of the year, things thaw. It’s not like they become close or anything like that; it’s not like they’re _friends_. But Ellie gets a little less annoying (even if a traitorous little voice reminds him he never thought she was annoying, not really, not at all) and it turns out that maybe she’s worth hanging out with, sometimes, occasionally.

And if she’s the only person he consistently talks to during summer break, well, that’s his business.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophomore year.

This time, Colt waits, hands tight around his rocks glass. 

He’s learned his lesson. Last year, he had been so focused on getting through this party without punching some rich asshole in the face that he had not adequately scoped out the bar. Obviously a mistake. This year, he cradles the Macallan 1926 covetously in his hand. There’s nothing better than pilfering expensive liquor from rich people and, as the liquid burns its way down, he wonders idly what distraction he would need to steal the entire $75,000 bottle.

And he waits, finest whiskey he’s ever had on his tongue, keeping the balcony doors in view while nodding halfheartedly to Toby’s inane story.

Then finally, after rolling his eyes through the entire convoluted tail, the door slips open at ten of midnight, a flash of dark curls and pale blue chiffon. He leaves the conversation without another word.

This time, when she sees him, she nods, edging over to make space at the railing as if she expected him. 

“You following me, Kaneko?”

“In your dreams, Wheeler.” Her answering grin makes something unfurl in his rib cage. “Can’t a man want some fresh air?”

The surrounding air is actually freezing, bitter and piercing through his suit as if he were clad in nothing, and she chuckles. “Right. You want to hang out in the 12 degree weather.” The wind picks up again, as if answering her snark, and she shivers in response.

He rolls his eyes, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it over. “Of course it’s cold. It’s December 31st in New York City. The hell were you expecting?”

“Haha.” She pulls his suit jacket on, one arm after the other, and the sight of her in his clothes makes something foreign and possessive thud in his chest. “Maybe it’s worth it to see you pretend to be a gentleman for once.”

“Only time ever, enjoy it while it lasts.” He studies her as she falls silent, leaning over the railing to gaze at the crowds below. “Was this year different?”

“What?”

“Last year, you said you wanted New Year’s to be a fresh start, something different. Was it?”

She fixes him with a look so intense he needs to glance away. “You remember that?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I guess…” She bites her lip, considering. “I’m not alone out here crying, so that’s a win?”

“High standards.”

“But I am out here with you, so that’s a loss.”

“Evens out, then. A draw.”

“Haha.” She nudges his shoulder with hers. “I don’t know. I didn’t really-” She stops short and Colt can’t stop himself from wondering how that sentence would have ended. “I guess I’m kinda in the same spot, but… maybe I feel better about it?”

“High standards?”

She laughs this time, full throated and pleased, and even in the bitter cold, Colt can feel his ears heat. “Well, I did some different things this year.”

“Really.”

“I made pancakes.” She had, using the communal dorm kitchen to make a batch from hand, presenting them with such unabashed glee that no one else had the heart to tell her they tasted foul.

“They were awful.”

“Shut up. I got drunk at a party?”

“You were drunk last New Year’s.”

“No, I wasn’t. Not like at that frat party. Remember?”

Colt remembers, every second, from her stumbling across the room to fall against his chest, a semblance of an embrace that made his forearms burn where they wrapped around her waist, to the stuttering walk then carry back to her dorm. It ended with her spewing her drinks onto the sidewalk while he rubbed comforting circles in her back and wondered idly if there was anyone else in the world he would have done this for. “Unfortunately.”

“Oh, shut it,” she laughs, pushing him away with a smile. “I went on a date.”

He hums. He knows she went on a date, some dweeb in her English Lit class who brought her flowers and lasted one week; Colt didn’t know what happened, but his imagination haunted him for days until Ingrid let it slip that Ellie had rejected him in front of the campus mailroom. Since then, every time he checked his mailbox, even though it was perpetually empty, he still left beaming.

“Sucked though,” she continues past his silence.

He toys with the glass in his hand, an inch of amber liquid splashing dark in the night. “Stunning list right there. Did it fix whatever the hell was wrong with you?”

“No.” He glances over and she’s already staring at him, wrapped tight in his jacket. The chill is seeping through his dress shirt and a few flakes land haphazard in her hair.

“Then what were you-” Inside, a familiar cheer cuts him off but it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s transfixed by the snow swirling around her, blue of her dress floating in the breeze, and the strobe lights beaming through the hotel windows and capturing the shine of her eyes. 

_Ten. Nine._

He can’t look away. She’s looking at him, imploringly, and he’s distracted by his jacket, enveloping her form with snow dotting the shoulders, and the red splaying across her cheeks to center at the tip of her nose. He wonders if her lips would be cold in the chill or warm if he captured them with his own.

_Eight. Seven._

He licks his own lip, and she is so fucking near that she mirrors the action as he leans forward and they were already standing close, sharing the same spot on the railing, but now her every exhale is a puff of grey into his chest, and he wants to capture the warm air so desperately his lungs burn.

_Six. Five._

They don’t make it to any further.

This time, this countdown, this year, she kisses him. Or he kisses her. Or they come together simultaneously, falling into each other as if gravity rearranged and there was no way he could ever fight physics, especially not when it draws him forward to swallow the soft sigh from her lips. The glass falls from his hand, shattering on the marble below, and he dimly thinks that there’s now hundreds of dollars of whiskey making a haphazard stain on tens of thousands of dollars of flooring but then it doesn’t matter, because he’s chasing the sweet liquor on her tongue and her hands are circling his shoulders to pull him even closer. Hell, he can’t get any closer, his hands on her hips underneath his own jacket and she’s warm, even through the gauzy dress and the bitter chill, and the warmth seeps through his chest. Even though they are as tightly twined as humanly possible, he can’t resist digging his fingers into her hips, wanting more. His head spins and it’s not the whiskey.

Her eyes are blurry when she pulls back, dazed and vacant, and the fact that it was _him_ who put that look on her face makes satisfaction roar over the shouting from inside.

And when she speaks, he almost falls to the ground. “Come to my room?”

“What?” Colt’s not stupid. He’s asked and answered this exact question before, many times, but there’s something about hearing the words from _Ellie Wheeler_ (perfect student, Sophomore Class President, an astonishing wit that keeps even him on his toes, and the guileless smile that haunts even his dreams) that makes his brain implode.

“Come to my room.”

“Ok.”

It was the only possible answer, he reflects as he takes the elevator up, sneaking out minutes after her to deflect suspicion and gossip. There was no way he could ever turn her down, and he worries that his inability to resist the doe eyes and down-turned lip may extend further than illicit invitations to her room. 

He knocks, three quick raps in time with his racing heart, and she turns the knob moments later. He wonders if she was waiting for him; the thought sits warmly at the base of his spine. However, when his gaze scans the room, she looks strangely nervous. She bites her lip, flushing under his gaze, clasped hands twisting in front of her, and Colt’s stomach twists.

“Hey. We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to do _anything_.” He rocks back on his heels. “We can just hang out and watch movies or whatever.”

“You would let me pick out holiday movies?”

“What the fuck are New Year’s movies?”

“Shut up,” she snarks, without bite, and he’s relieved when she smiles, beatific and calm. “Come here.” She beckons, and he is helpless to respond, careful steps moving closer until he’s looking down at her, past the flushed cheeks and the bodice hinting at smooth skin underneath down to her feet, heels kicked off and toes scarlet against the beige carpet. He kisses her cautiously, hand cupping her jaw, and she returns it inexpertly before they settle into a warm rhythm, her hands fisting into his shirt and pulling them both on the bed.

It’s uncertain, tentative. She fumbles with his buttons, and her smile turns blinding when he takes her hands and drops a kiss on the very tip of each finger. She giggles when he bites into her hip, and it turns into a low moan when his teeth find her inner thigh. 

Colt’s used to girls who take their pleasure from him, who jump demanding into his bed as the cumulation of a night of thinly veiled innuendos and suggestive touch, a transactional end to a passing acquaintance.

Ellie’s different. Every touch is a conversation, a physical give and take that contains multitudes, questions in her lips at his neck and then answers hidden in the peak of her breasts, the slick between her folds. 

It feels like a beginning.

The second time is fast, dirty, toe-curling. It’s as if their bodies now know each other and are desperate to move as one. He leaves teeth prints at the back of her neck, and the way she keens his name pulls heavenly release from his hips, shaking into her willing warmth.

The third time is slow, sweet. He mumbles endearments into her mouth, barely cognizant of the words, and his hands trace every inch of her skin, learning and relearning and memorizing the skin and curves and places that make her breath stutter and her legs shake. She falls apart underneath him, his name a sigh from her tongue, and he can’t stop his greedy hands from holding her close, sweat cooling on their skin.

When he opens his eyes, she’s still curled around him and the sun is high in the sky. As content as he would be to lay here and wait for her to stir against his chest, he’s had slightly too much whiskey last night; judging by the headache brewing just behind his eyes, he needs caffeine before he can do any more of the myriad and scandalous activities calling his name between these sheets. Her flight out west isn’t for hours and, as he creeps out of bed, pocketing her hotel key on the way, he comes up with a half-formed plan: coffee, maybe some of those tiny pastries she likes, and then milking every second he can in that bed.

It goes wrong almost immediately. 

Mona’s in line at the coffee shop in the lobby, so he heads to his own room to change into a shirt that hasn’t been torn from his chest. When he reemerges in sweats, Logan corners him and he’s dragged into a conversation about Ingrid’s parents that Colt would murder to be saved from. His only cogent thought is that he needs to get back upstairs. He tries to edge away and obscure the fact that he ordered two coffees when the elevator dings behind him and the smile that graces Logan’s face lets him know he’s _fucked_. There’s only one person Logan smiles at like that, that dumb besotted fucking cartoonish grin, and Colt knows with immediate certainty how bad this looks.

He turns, stomach falling, and Ellie’s walking out of the elevator, head down, far more clothed than she was when he slipped from her bed, and she tossed her hair into a haphazard bun. She looks up and freezes when she sees him, step stuttering for a half-second before she recovers and ambles over.

“Morning, Logan.”

She turns and shoots him a glare, so dark it’s almost as if he were stabbed, wounded and furious and vile; his eyes fall to the floor and he shoves his hands into his pockets.

When he looks up again, Logan is droning on about fuck knows what and the fire in Ellie’s eyes dissipates, replaced with a hateful ice that’s almost worse, chilling him to the bone. He chugs both lattes in front of him, but his limbs still feel cold as they roll in his stomach.

It isn’t until that afternoon that he can catch her alone. He waits on an uncomfortable leather couch for far too long, drumming a nervous tune against his leg in the lobby, head shooting up at every ding of the elevator. When it’s finally her, hands tight around her suitcase, he leaps to his feet but the indignant glare on her face makes him pause. 

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“No, wait, Ellie, would you just let me-”

“I get it, I don’t even care anymore so-”

She storms away and he speed walks to keep up with her and they are both ridiculously power walking through the fucking hotel lobby, and he is torn between tearing his hair out and screaming. “It’s not what you fucking think so-”

“I told you, I don’t-”

“Stop!” He grabs her arm, spinning her to face him. “Just listen to me-”

“I don’t-.”

“Listen!” His shout quiets her, finally, and her eyes are shuttered and dark as she waits. “Listen. I went to get coffee. I didn’t fucking duck out on you, I wouldn’t do that-”

“Yes, you would.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“You have.”

“Jesus, not to you.” He rakes his hand over his face. “I wouldn’t. Not to you. I went to get you coffee. And me coffee.” He clears his throat, shoving his hand in his pocket to triumphantly emerge with her hotel key. “I went to get coffee and-”

“That’s why I needed a new key card?!?”

“Yeah, and then I got caught by Logan and I didn’t think I could exactly say that we hooked up last night and-”

“Why not?”

“What?!?”

“Why couldn’t you say it, Colt? Ashamed?” She stares up at him, challenge clear in her eyes, and he is so taken aback it takes him a minute to respond.

“Ashamed… to have hooked up with you?”

“Yeah.”

“What? No! Christ, what the-” He rubs his eyes. “We didn’t exactly talk about it. What if you didn’t want anyone to know?”

The ice in her eyes softens for a moment, but then it’s back, worse and more hateful than before. “Well, you know what? I don’t. And it doesn’t matter.” She lifts her chin to glare at him, head on. “I don’t care about your excuses, it changes nothing.” She snatches the key from him and his hand dangles in the air. “And you owe me the ten bucks they charged to replace this.”

“Wait, but-”

“Colt, we slept together. That’s it. The end. Have a great Winter Break. See you later.” She tries to push by him but he moves, sidestepping to block her path. They’re in the middle of the fucking hallway, other guests shuffling around them, and it’s so fucking ridiculous, but he can’t let it end like this.

“That’s not it. You know last night meant something.”

Her eyes narrow. “No. It didn’t. Nothing changed.”

“I thought you wanted to make a change.” The words are far more pleading than he would like, but he’s anguished, losing something he never really had but somehow desperately wants back. “I thought you wanted to do something different.”

She looks him up and down, and Colt spies distaste in the curve of her sneer. “Not you.”

He would almost be impressed with the comeback if something fragile didn’t crack in his chest. It aches as he watches her saunter away, her head high, while he ducks his own. 

The churning in his stomach is guilt, he realizes abruptly. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. Colt never regrets his actions. He moves decisively and doesn’t think about the wreckage left behind and the people he hurts.

But as his stomach whirls so wildly he worries he’s going to vomit on the lobby carpet, he realizes he never truly cared about the consequences of his actions until now, until the one person he cares about more than anything fades from view, with not even a glance behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junior year.

Colt drums his fingers on the high top table, eyes trained on the path towards the balcony; when he sees an intricate updo edge over, he moves, sliding through the crowd to cut off her path.

“Dance with me.”

“What?” Ellie scrunches her nose but, in her eyes, he can see her waver.

“Please. Dance with me.”

“You hate dancing.”

“I know.”

He can see her mentally debate her decision. In the last year, they have slowly come to a truce, and it looks like she is weighing both pros and cons of spending any amount of time with him. 

At first, the winter had been freezing, chock full of icy glares and strained silence. But by spring, she had thawed, sparing him an occasional half smile, a few small snippets of conversation. Fall brought them together in Organic Chemistry; for all the exams and lab work, the biggest learning had been how effortlessly and flawlessly they worked together. And by the first snow, they were back to some kind of strained acquaintance, perhaps not as easy as it had once been, but a kindling of a start.

And now Colt was going to blow it all up.

“Fine. One dance.” He can feel the chill in her voice but nods, following her as she steps through the crowd to stand wooden, hands locked across her chest, delicate tendrils of hair swirling at her temples in a marked contrast to the glare on her face. “What do you want, Colt?”

“This isn’t any dance I’ve ever seen.”

She groans, low in her throat, but begrudgingly winds her hands around his neck as his gentle fingertips grace the curve of her hip. “What do you really want?” she repeats.

“I can’t just want to spend time with you?”

Her gaze darkens, and he knows she’s remembering last year, remembering storming from this very hotel after he slipped out of her bed. “Apparently not.”

“Ellie, I told you-”

“Whatever.” She edges back just slightly but the distance - mere inches really, nothing notable, less than a gaudy marble floor tile - the distance is still enough to gut him, ache hot and sharp in his stomach. He’s always had a smart remark, something snide and cutting hidden just underneath his tongue, but now he falters, wondering what the magic combination of words and phrases could be, something, _anything_ to ease the tension in her jaw, the shuttering of her eyes.

He’s always been great at words to keep people away; now that he needs words to draw someone in, he’s speechless.

“It’s whatever, Colt.” She interrupts his pained thoughts with a dismissive shake of her head. “Just forget it.”

“I can’t.”

“Whatever.” She sighs, heavy enough to be heard over the dull classical music from the quartet in the corner. “I’m sick of this. Let’s just forget about sophomore year. Start over. Friends? Again?”

Hell, no. Colt does not want to be friends. As grateful as he is that she is deigning to speak to him, what he desires would definitely not be considered friendly. “What’s with the change of heart?”

“New Year? Fresh start? Positive energy?” She softens slightly in his arms, though her lip is still down-turned in a pout. He can’t stop staring, especially now that he knows what it’s like to have it between his teeth.

“That sounds like my New Year’s resolution.”

“You. A resolution? Seriously?” He shrugs. Her mouth opens and closes for a moment before she snarks, “Is this you admitting you’re not flawless?”

“Aw, Ellie,” he drawls. “You think I’m perfect? I’m touched.”

“Hardly.” She rolls her eyes, but he sees a hint of a smile, barely, slightly, almost invisible if he weren’t looking so closely at every movement of her face. “It doesn’t really seem like you to make a resolution.”

“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.” She’s looking at him with an eyebrow raised, disbelief painted clear across her features, and he tries with every cell in his body to deliver his next words with a gravity and sincerity from his chest unlearned from anyone else in his life. “Ellie, I’m so-.”

She doesn’t even let him finish the sentence. “It’s fine.”

“Ellie-”

“It’s _fine_.” She glances away, tone stressed on the last word in a way that lets him know it is decidedly not fine. “It’s not like I wanted to _date_ you.” Some lingering scar inside his ribs twinges. She’s the smartest person he knows, top of their class and quick enough to keep even him on his toes, so of course she’s smart enough to want to stay away from him. His fingers tighten over the tiny beads of her dress, each one pushing a sharp divot in his fingertips. “What was your resolution, anyway?”

“To make it up to you.” This stops her in her tracks and he has to stop as well, lest he land on her towering heels.

“What?”

“To make up for last year. To have a better start to this year. With you.”

She looks shocked, speechless, and he feels like an idiot, standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor while couples spin around them. It’s like he’s standing in judgement, sweating in the grey suit he trots out to this party every fucking year, awkward and lost in the haze of champagne and money.

He doesn’t notice the buzz until it’s echoing against the gilded walls of this fucking room, excitement and rich people coming together into a heaving drone that knocks insistently on his consciousness until it’s impossible to ignore.

_Ten. Nine. Eight._

Shit.

The fucking _countdown_. 

He sucks in a breath.

She bites her lip and quirks a half-smile, tentative and weak. “You know, I’ve never made a resolution.”

“Because you’re so flawless?” He chuckles when she swats his arm. She moves to hit him again, but he moves faster, grabbing her hand and twining their fingers together, pulling her ever-so-slightly closer.

“Maybe because I didn’t think things would ever change for me,” she whispers.

“Maybe nothing will change unless you make it change.”

_Seven. Six._

She blinks up at him.

“You said that freshman year, Ellie.”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah.” He clutches his fingers in hers, warm and impossibly small. “This New Year, maybe I’m the one who wants to change things.”

_Five. Four. Three._

“It’s a somewhat ridiculous tradition,” she murmurs. “I don’t know what’s so special about today. You could resolve to change any day of the year.”

She’s not wrong. “Yeah, but you barely spoke to me any of the other days of the year.”

“I was hurt.” 

_Two_.

He pulls her closer, hand tracing the line of her dress to the small of her back, and the way her eyes water fucking does him in. “I’m sorry.”

Her breath catches and she looks up-

_One._

-and the second hangs forever. He can’t pull his eyes from hers and she looks stunned, staring up at him, and he can’t fucking breathe in the middle of the crowd pressing in on him when all he can see is her.

Vaguely, he registers the cheers, couples exchanging chaste kisses and noisemakers ringing shrill throughout the room. None of it alters his focus from Ellie, from her hand cradled in his, from the way her arm tightens around his shoulders, from the way she bites her lip and, God, he’s seen her tilt her head like that in his dreams and he can’t stop himself from surging forward.

She responds immediately, lips fervent against his, and he pulls her flush to his chest. He can’t think, can’t function, not at all; with every motion, she’s stealing sense from his brain and air from his lungs, and it’s all he can do to kiss her back. She drops his hand to wind her arms around his neck, pulling him down, using him for balance as she teeters on her heels.

But he himself has never felt less stable, needing air as he detangles their lips. “I really am sorry.” He barely pulls back, mere millimeters, so his lips catch on hers with every consonant. 

“Seriously? You?” 

“I am. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Her breath is warm on his lips, and it takes every bit of his resolve not to close the distance. “I was pissed and overreacted.”

“Let me make it up to you.” This makes her lean back, and her eyes trace his face. He searches around in his pocket until he clasps a plastic card. “Here. Come to my room this time.” He closes her fingers around the card and can’t resist stealing one last breathless kiss.

He doesn’t look back when he walks out of the room, even when he’s walking down the hall and through his door to slump against the bed. He wonders if she will show, if the memory of last year will be enough for his apology to ring true, and he’s half convinced himself that she’s going to go back to ignoring him when the door clicks open and he staggers to his feet.

She shuts the door behind her, then studies him with a keen eye. “You didn’t think I would come, did you?”

“Not at all.”

She shrugs. “Well, like you said: maybe if I want things to change, I need to make them change.”

He nods, steady steps forward until they’re face-to-face, “Your words.” 

“Things changed since freshman year.”

The comment could refer to a million various changes- classes and dorms and friends and majors and apartments - but there is one thing he wants to change, right now, and he can’t wait another second before he tilts her chin up and kisses her, desperately, pulling her in for an embrace that would have sent Ingrid’s prissy elderly relatives to an early grave.

She’s breathless when he pulls back and he wonders, for a second, if he were too hasty, but she only tangles her fingers into his tie and pulls him back, shoving the jacket from his shoulders while his hands dive into her hair, winding his fingers through the updo that probably took far longer to create than it will to destroy.

She moans as he kisses down her neck, bites gentle on her clavicle, and he can’t get his fucking jacket off fast enough to touch her. He traces up the deep slit in her dress and her legs part as she sags against the door with a low moan. His fingers tease higher, under the delicate beading, to where her thighs meet warm and she gasps. When her breath catches, he slides over the silken fabric again, tracing spiraling shapes over what feels like very expensive underwear. His mouth waters and he resolves to look later, but right now he can’t possibly be expected to wait. Pushing her thong to the side, she’s so wet, head craning back as his fingers ease inside her, and the way her voice stutters around his name makes his cock twitch in his stupid fancy suit.

Fuck, he _really_ can’t wait, free hand frantic against buttons and zips, until his cock springs free and his teeth find the slope of her neck. It’s messy and desperate and it takes mere seconds for him to rub slick fingers against her clit, to push her waist against the door until she is barely balanced on the toes of those strappy heels, to lift her thighs so her legs interlock around him, and finally to bury himself inside her welcoming heat.

“Fuck.” The word is punched out from his throat, into the hollow of hers, and he drags his lips across heated skin, nips and bites delivered while she lets out the most delicious moans. 

His thumb is tracing haphazard designs on her clit when she somehow finds a voice to gasp out, “You… you couldn’t wait until we got into bed?”

“I’ve been waiting forever, Ellie.”

“Jeez, it was only five minutes.”

He stares at her, head on, and rasps, “I’ve been waiting a year, Ellie.”

She has no answer to that, only pulls his head down to crash his lips into hers and the passage of time (Five minutes? Ten? Infinite? Mere moments?) is a heady rush of pleasure and heat. Her legs tighten around him, the firm hold matching the vise of her body, and her dress pools below, flowing down the door and into a heap under his feet. His shoes crinkle the fabric with every thrust and he wonders if it will rip, if the expensive fabric will tear because of their frenzied movements, but realizes he doesn’t care much. Any jagged holes and consequent tailoring bill will be worth it for the way she pulls him in, the way she sobs his name, the column of her neck completely exposed for his teeth and tongue to find purchase. His hands press her hips into the door as she quakes around him, name breathy and high in his ear, and he lets go, muscles tightening and releasing as the room splinters and all he can see is Ellie’s perfect pout, wide open in pleasure.

When the world comes back into existence, she’s slumped against the door, hair terrifically falling out of place and it would take only one more tug before her curls cascade to her shoulders (so he tugs, of course he does, right before he eases her feet onto the ground so she can blink slow up at him, wide eyes surrounded by curtains of hair). He slides her out of her dress, one strap at a time, leaving it pooled by the door; he takes a moment to admire the thong (deep red, matching her flush) and then pulls it off, hands tracing greedily down her legs, to join the heap of fabric.

When he ushers her over to his bed, admiring every square inch of bare skin, she slides against the sheets and he covers her body with his own. He’s still dressed, barely, and she looks like a goddess, a goddamn siren, sent from above to tempt him away from the life he leads, offering salvation in the guise of a valedictorian with a winning smile. His clothes take far too long to come off, even with her hands easing the way, and the first touch of his bare skin on hers only inflames him. He ducks his head to taste his way down to the spot that makes her fingers tighten in his hair.

Once she shakes apart and falls boneless to the bed, he crawls up, her hands reaching for him, clasping arms, chest, every inch sliding past her fingers as he slots between her legs. He teases her, length situated right at her entrance and dipping through her folds, until she’s arching off the bed, nails scratching up his spine to his hair until he’s impatient, insane, can’t wait another fucking minute before his hips move, her legs trembling as she wails.

He wants nothing more than this, hours passing with her hands all over him. He tries to make each moment infinite, each kiss and every touch an attempt to prove that this is a New Year’s tradition that should last all year.

It doesn’t work.

In the morning, he rolls over and his arm meets only the cool sheets. His heart lurches, though he belatedly realizes that he should have expected it. _Turnabout is fair play_. He sighs, raking a hand over his face, and throws on some sweats, one last forlorn glance at the empty bed before heading to the lobby.

He can’t wait for the first hit of caffeine in his veins but freezes when he turns the corner. At a circular table next to carafes of milk and hot water, sit his friends, Ellie perched in the middle, oversized sweatshirt dwarfing her slight frame and hair tied up in a ponytail (he doesn’t know who she thinks she’s fooling; there are tangles framing her face and, if he had his way, he’d fuck her out of that hairdo as well until his fingertips were at her scalp, hair a disheveled mess that would take a shower, a _shared_ shower, to fix).

He grabs his coffee and ambles over, purposely slow, and greets everyone, saving the best for last. “Good morning, Ellie.”

She only stares evenly at him but finally fidgets under his certain gaze. As his eyes sweep down, she pulls her sweatshirt closer and he can’t stop the left side of his lip from quirking.

He knows exactly what she’s trying to hide, knows with abject certainty that underneath the shifting fabric, his marks remain, shadows of his lips and tongue blooming under her skin. The smirk turns into a full grin when she finally glances away, turning her attention out to their friends.

She can pretend all she wants. She’s not as unaffected as she appears to be and, as Colt settles into a stool, he hides his satisfied smirk behind a coffee cup.

~~~~~

Ellie doesn’t mention it, so he doesn’t either, trying to unsuccessfully convince himself that he’s satisfied they are more than acquaintances again.

Until Riya lets it slip that Ellie has a date, a dreamy smile on her face, hands cupping her coffee and sharing detail after morbid detail, blind to Colt’s fouling mood. He knows he shouldn’t but a dark, self-hating part of his mind somehow grabs control of his body and wanders downtown that night, past bougie restaurants and small businesses hawking crap trinkets until he makes it to her favorite taco joint.

Her silhouette beams over guacamole and watered-down margaritas in his memories, mouth open in a laugh, a massive difference compared to the sight in front of him. Because now, she’s perched at the bar with her chin on her hand, vacant eyes watching some prissy asshat from her Bio group. She looks bored, miserable, and her eyes widen in thinly veiled panic as she spies him through the giant glass window. With a few words, she stands and stalks outside. He shoves his hands into his pockets and tries to make his smile a little less smug before she slams the door behind her.

Based on the fire in her eyes, he’s not sure he succeeded.

“What are you doing here?” she spits, hair flying around her face as she points right into his chest.

He smirks. “I can’t walk downtown?”

“Tonight? The very night I have a date? Seriously?”

He shrugs, and a smile plays across his lips as her fury slowly fades into mere annoyance. “Well?” he asks.

“Well, what?”

“How is your date going, then?”

She looks down. “…It sucks.”

“Yeah, looks awful.” She groans in agreement and Colt, who’s never met a risk he wasn’t willing to gamble on, well, he can’t help but try his luck. “Blow him off, then. Let’s get out of here.”

“What? I can’t just-”

“You can.” He shrugs. “Why are you gonna waste your time going back in? Let’s get out of here.”

She gapes back at him. “Just leave? And abandon Tony at the bar?”

“Yeah. Change your night up. Let’s go.”

She looks at him incredulously and then turns back to the bar. He can see her wavering and holds his breath until, finally, her face alights in a devious smirk. “Fine. Let’s go.”

She walks up the street without a second glance, and Colt is grateful as her steps hide his beaming grin. He follows briskly to catch up to where she’s already heading back to campus. And, as they walk, he realizes it’s something.

It’s not a date. Colt doesn’t go on dates. But it is _something_.

Because from outside the restaurant, it’s easy enough to stroll back to campus side-by-side, arms knocking together as they wander up the street and she complains about an idiot professor.

And then it’s easy enough to swing through the cafeteria minutes before closing for ice cream.

And from there, it’s easy enough for her to edge closer, right outside her room, and easier still for him to press her against the door to capture the vanilla on her tongue, and easiest of all to follow her inside, her fingers tangled in his.

The bed is tiny, spaciousness of the hotel exchanged for a mattress unsuitable for two, but they move as one soon enough. He coaxes fervent pleas from her lips, her hips quake under his tongue, and he knows the jagged lines from her fingernails will take days to heal, each one an aching reminder of her falling apart under his touch.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she huffs into his skin as he tucks her against him, his chin cupping her forehead. He doesn’t reply, just stares at the ceiling until her breaths slow and, finally, he lets the steady sound lull him into a warm sleep.

The next morning, they get coffee together. While it’s still the shitty campus center coffee, at least she sits with him, their knees knocking together, perched on stools overlooking the quad.

And when Colt gets back to his dorm, it’s alone, but he has three lines blooming red on his back.

For now, that’s enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senior year.

This year, Colt waits by himself, quarter till midnight in the bitter cold of this stupid holiday marking one year edging into the next, a meaningless arbitrary date on a calendar full of them. The skyscrapers tower over him, dark and foreboding, cheers and car horns ringing out from the street below, and he leans his forearms on the railing, patient, willing to wait all night if that’s what it takes. Unfortunately, waiting means an idle mind and his brain replays the last time they were here, last year at this fucking shindig, every interaction since flashing like a movie reel.

After he had interrupted her first date, there had been a second, then a third, her enjoying drinks and dinners with a parade of coeds who weren’t him. 

But she still found herself back in his arms after each one, either showing up at his apartment or, far more likely, him interrupting, thankful for the intel from Mona or Riya that let him know where and when to wander insouciantly by. It would only take one look, one raised eyebrow, and then she would slide out of her seat, absconding into the night or, on one memorable occasion, to the back bathroom of the dim club. Then, their conversation, whispered and harsh, had turned louder when he slotted between her thighs, her hands grasping him as if she was terrified he would pull away, needing his lips on hers with a ferocity he matched, pulling open zips and straps as frantically as possible. When he finally was buried inside of her, a single thrust that had him moaning pleasure onto her tongue, her arms dropped to his shoulders to pull him every closer still.

But apparently she didn’t always want him that close, he thought bitterly, remembering the other times, times she pushed him away, times when she kept going out with one prissy asshole after another.

Thankfully, he doesn’t sit with those memories long. It’s only a few minutes before he hears the creak of hinges, the cacophony of the party behind him rising then dimming as the door shuts. He doesn’t turn, only waits, as heels click against the marble and she leans on the railing next to him.

“You beat me.” She smiles and looks out at the city laid out in front of them.

“Is this a tradition now?”

“I mean, it’s our senior year. Last year for it.”

“That’s not true. Ingrid’s always gonna invite you to this party.”

“And you think you’re gonna get an invite next year?” she teases.

“Touché.” It’s weird to think that four years have gone by, his college career almost over; hell, his entire academic career is almost over, one more semester to close the book on classroom learning for the rest of his life. Of course, Ellie is going to grad school, staying in New York City (seventeen subway stops from his mom’s apartment, a fact that he’s tried and failed to think about more times than he can count).

She touches his arm lightly. “What are you thinking about?”

“College.” He shrugs. “How it’s almost over. How fast it went by… You.”

“What.”

“Ellie? What were you sad about? Freshman year?”

She bites her lip, chuckle fading into a shy glance at her feet before she meets his eyes. “I was lonely.”

“You? Are you-”

“Shut it. I was lonely and sad and then you wandered in.”

“But everyone adores you! How were you-”

“I had friends but…” She glances away, studying the railing underneath her fingertips, but takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes, intently. “I had always been following this path that other people laid out for me, but I felt alone. I wanted someone who understood me.”

She hasn’t looked away and he can’t breathe, lungs burning in the cold; he resists the urge to ask her if she found them. He knows the answer. Throughout all of college, standing over Bunsen burners and crawling into bedsheets, through highs and lows and shitty coffee and extravagant champagne, they had always understood each other. 

“I interrupted your dates because I knew you would leave with me.”

She doesn’t deny it. “I went on dates because I knew you would interrupt.”

He doesn’t deny it, and her grin is smug and entirely too endearing. He swallows and her words return to him. _Maybe nothing changes unless I make it._

“I love you, Ellie.” The words come fast off his tongue, rushed, as if holding them in had been a strain and if he didn’t say it now, it would never come out, instead eating him alive until only a husk remained. As they hang in the frigid air, he realizes that, in a lifetime of half truths and straight-out lies, it’s the most honesty he’s ever uttered aloud.

“What.”

He holds her gaze, forcing himself not to look away, not to blink. “You heard me.” The silence stretches on, only the wind whipping below stirring up refuse from alleyways, and even the drunk revelers are silent, as if they too await his fate.

Finally, she smiles. “I love you, too.”

“Good.” The confirmation definitely doesn’t hurt and, turning, he captures her lips for a long moment. When he pulls back, it’s a few beats before she opens her eyes and, when she smiles, she looks as happy as he feels. “Then you done going on dates with other people?”

“You done trying to sneak out of my bed in the morning?”

 _It was one fucking time_. He rolls his eyes. “Just you wait. We’re never gonna leave your bed.”

She shivers. Maybe it’s the cold, maybe it’s the way he’s tracing the cut of her dress, but regardless, she leans in. “I think we should make it to midnight for that.”

“We could go inside.”

“Seriously?” Her eyes widen. “You? You want to go back inside? To the party?”

“Change it up a little. Fresh start.” He shrugs, hand wandering lower. “Be warm for once. Sneak off after midnight.”

“I don’t think we need to sneak off anymore.”

“No,” he avers as he takes her hand, leading her towards the balcony doors, “not at all.”

He holds the door open for her, closing it behind him to shut out the winter chill. The party is in full bloom in front of them, rich people without a clue flaunting wealth on their wrists, around their necks, a lavish display of opulence and exclusivity that makes his teeth grind. 

Colt always hated this shit.

But walking through the crowd with Ellie’s arm locked in his? Pulling her indecently close as they spin on the dance floor? Kissing her with abandon at midnight in front of all of Ingrid’s snobby family members until his _girlfriend_ breaks away, slightly embarrassed cough at odds with the way her fingertips linger against his cheek?

Well, turns out Colt actually likes this shit.


End file.
